it all happens so quickly: one second, you’re a little girl with scabs on her forehead, and the next you’re a melodramatic teenager writing poetry on her phone, waiting in line outside an atm machine. and i know exactly how this reads: i know someday, i’ll look back on this, and laugh, digging my nails into my palms.
i can’t play god. i never could, not really; paint my face golden and drift above it all. this way of life cracks like an eggshell, used up and old. i’m tired of reaching for the sky, as a headache swirls around my skull like milk in coffee. and the story is over before it’s even begun, brought to life in my palms and instantly destroyed in gravity’s insistent grip.
i can’t do this anymore, caught in a game of tug of war between the voices in my head, as they shift, form, and then let go. what if i’m broken? what if they’re wrong? what if they’re right?
it’s all so fucking loud, as i push through a faceless crowd, in search of answers i’ll never find; running as fast as i can from the glistening future that terrorizes me at night. where cities burn, and i choke on the air in my lungs; come of age in armageddon. but maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.
‘cause the world might be ending, and i might not be doing anything at all. but if i think about it for too long, i’m just gonna fall apart completely. so give me perfection, spun sugar bird’s nest and all. i’ll pour my heart and soul into one night, and watch silently as it falls.